


Homesick

by commanderlurker (honeybee592)



Series: OTP: You're the boss [14]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 14:09:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9185095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybee592/pseuds/commanderlurker
Summary: Bull uses rope on Grace for the first time and Grace realises that Bull needs Grace just as much as she needs him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Adamant, before Tough Love.

Weary feet led Grace up the stairs to her chambers. She’s already pulling her hair out from its tight bun when the door swings closed. Just a few more steps and she can start with the buttons on her doublet. But Tiger and Ari circle her feet and meow, so she bends to pat them and ask them about their morning. Takes her another minute before she rounds the banister with her bed in her sights. She stops mid-step when she finally does see the bed. Then she looks around. Bull’s out on the balcony, staring out at the Frostbacks. Pensive, even. He’ll have heard her. He’ll be waiting for her to think over what he’s left for her before going and talking to him.

She returns her attention to the bed. Four coils of sunflower-yellow rope lie neatly on the covers. She reaches out and touches one, lightly, then pulls back like it stung. But it didn’t. So she strokes the rope again, picks up a length. It’s soft, bright, as thick as her little finger. She’s still holding it in both hands when she looks to where Bull still stands. He’s got a shirt on. Nothing fancy. Just a button-up linen undershirt. So he’s still covered in bruises then. The grey of his neck looks pallid against the dun colouring of the shirt. She turns back to the rope and realises she’s shaking just a little. She doesn’t need to be afraid. She’s walked in the Fade itself, faced her nightmares head on and survived. So has Bull.

She closes her fists around the rope and purses her lips. She’ll do this. For him. And if she doesn’t like it, well… she’ll say the word.

She puts the rope down, settling it back into place and goes out to stand with Bull at the balcony. She nudges his forearm and smiles up at him. He smiles back and wraps his arm around her, pulling her close.

“How’re you doing? You were in judgement all morning,” he says.

“My bottom aches.”

On cue, he slips his hand over her arse and gives it a squeeze. “You know you talking all chaste like that makes me just want to tear your clothes off and ravage you.” He growls, too and heat blooms through Grace.

“Bassy warned me about men like you,” she says, trying to keep her voice even. “A bad influence, you are. Before you know it, I’ll be saying the c-word.”

“Cunt?”

Grace laughs. “No, not that one! Everyone says cunt. I mean…” she nods down at his groin. The letters catch in her throat.

“Go on, I dare you,” Bull teases.

“No! You’ll ravage me, and based on what’s on the bed, you already have plans.”

“Oh yeah, that.” He glances behind him then back at Grace. “We’ve been through a lot of really weird crap recently. Thought we could try something different. Could be fun. ” He smiles and though it reaches his eyes, it’s a little forced.

Grace takes his hand and leads him inside. She stops at the foot of the bed, wondering if she should undress. He usually does that for her, but she’s still wearing her boots and her hair's all messy and in her face. Bull’s staring at the rope like he’s at a loss, too, so Grace touches his chest, palm over the opening in the shirt.

“Will you take this off?” she asks.

He cocks his head, looks like he wants to say something but unbuttons the shirt instead. His torso is striped with bruises, yellowing now, but still obvious. She’s not sure how many of them were her doing. She can't’ve hit him that hard. They must be Cassandra’s work. She strokes one, right to left, and his skin goes all goosebumpy under her fingertips.

Adamant really had been a mess. No. More than that. What had he called it? A clusterfuck. She blushes hot at the word but he hadn’t been wrong.

“That better?” he asks.

Grace nods.

“You want me to take my pants off, too?” He smirks.

Grace smirks back. “Only if you want to.”

He tilts his head, considering. “Nah. Don’t want you getting distracted by my _cock_.”

Grace blushes again but knows he only said it to tease her. “Where do you want me?”

He rests his hands on her shoulders and they stare at each other for a long moment, his chest rising and falling in a slow ebb and flow. Grace matches her breathing to his and relaxes, content, ready for whatever he wants. Bull helps her out of her outer layers, holding her hair up while she shucks her doublet and vest. She sits to unlace her boots while Bull wanders over to her nightstand and back again. She pulls off her trousers off with an ungainly hop-jerk, though she keeps her underwear on at his request. 

“Lean forward a little,” he says.

She does as he asks and is rewarded with a kiss on the back of her neck. He toys with her hair, combing it with his fingers, shaking loose the tightness against her scalp. When he runs the brush through, she shivers, tingles sparking all over. He chuckles and repeats the move.

“You know, I used to have the same reaction when the Tamassrans brushed my hair,” he says.

“You had hair? Long enough to brush?” Grace is so startled that she turns and looks up at Bull. She can’t tell if he’s joking or not. She definitely can’t picture him with long hair. He puts a big hand on her head and turns her forward again.

“Yep. Got it real long.” He keeps brushing as he talks. “As kids we’d grow it out until a lice outbreak meant the tamas shaved us all. When I got older, I grew it out. Kept it in a single braid.”

“Was it a status thing? Something you did for your role?”

Grace feels him shrug. “Kind of. Some roles, like the Ariqun, require long hair that can be braided or tied. Lots of qunari keep their hair short though. More practical. Especially if you're in the Antaam and engaging in combat. I got rid of mine two hours after landing in Seheron. Too muggy there. The moisture clings to your hair, making you feel like you’re carrying a sack of potatoes on your head. Plus it left me vulnerable in a fight.” The way his voice dipped at that part makes Grace think that there’s a story there, but he sounds so sad already that she doesn’t want to pry. And he still speaks like he’s one of them. That thought makes her heart crack so she instead tries to picture Bull with thick black hair braided half way down his back. She shivers again and not because of his brushing.

When her hair is smooth, he wraps it in a loose knot at the base of her neck. A few tendrils towards her temples escape so he pins them back so they won’t tickle her face. Then he gets her to stand on the bearskin in the centre of the room. He has one of her scarves in his hands, Ostwick plaid, and she tenses as he raises it to her head. She closes her eyes pre-emptively, only the scarf isn’t wound around her face. It’s draped around the back of her neck, then crossed over her breasts to her back, where Bull tugs and ties a knot.

“Looking good,” he says.

She looks down and Maker, yes, she has to agree. Her breasts are cupped in a way that her bra can’t match. They even look bigger, too.

“I don’t want to get distracted by your tits,” he says by way of explanation. “Plenty of time for playing with them later. In the meantime…”

He reaches for one of the lengths of rope, uncoiling it, letting it pool of the floor at his feet while he runs it through his hands. Grace is mesmerised even as her heart beats a little harder.

“I thought I could show you something that my people do. Just… something new. Put your arms out. Yeah, like that.”

He wraps the rope around the back of her neck, over her scarf, then crosses it at the dip in her clavicle. Both sides go around her back and up to her shoulders, then he crosses them again. Over and over.

“This style, it’s called Antaam-Saar. It’s what a lot of us wear day-to-day. Well, the women, anyway. It’s functional and comfortable. Hot in Par Vollen. Seheron, too. We have a lot of skin on display out of necessity. But it has another function, too.”

He doesn’t say what that function is. He goes quiet, wrapping and crossing and wrapping and crossing. The rope tugs and Grace’s arms get sore. She keeps them outstretched for as long as she can, then lowers them, elbows out, hands resting on her hips. The ends of the rope flick against her wrists and it feels a little like the ribbon they’ve used before.

Bull turns her and she jerks as he pulls on the rope and ties it off. Then he turns her again and looks her over.

“Nice.” He whispers the word, like he’s talking to himself, so Grace stays quiet.

It is nice, she sees. When he goes to the bed to get another length, she runs her fingers over the rope. It’s woven in a diamond over her chest. It looks a little like the seal the qunari would stamp on their reports, back when the Inquisition received them. The way the rope lies accentuates her breasts. She feels gorgeous. Maker, if only the mirror was close by.

“I’ll tie your arm now. Give it a shake, let the tension out. Yeah, now back how you had it.”

He starts at her elbow, tucking one end in and wrapping the rope around and around so it had the feel of couter. Then he winds it up her forearm and makes a tight circle of her bicep. She loses track of what he does after that, unable to follow the path the rope takes. He goes from her bicep right to her wrist, up and down, tucking and pulling. Here on her arm, she’s more sensitive. The rope’s rougher than the ribbons they’ve used before. It rubs and makes a _thriiip_ sound as Bull runs the length through loops and knots. The coils around her arm are tight but don’t hurt, doesn’t pinch. It feels nice. She flexes her arm and the rope doesn’t budge.

“Good?” Bull asks.

Grace nods. It’s very good. All the better because he’s doing the tying. She watches his face as he works, his eye keen, concentration sharp. He purses his lips, twists them. The tip of his tongue comes out too, sometimes. She laughs and he pauses his work to smile at her, kiss her. He’s softer than she’s seen him in weeks. Just as controlled, but there’s a smoothness in the way he moves that hasn’t been there since the siege of Adamant. He’s… normal again. Like he’s finally shaken the fears.

He ties her other arm with the same quiet concentration and again Grace watches. She loves him. She’s known this for months. She won’t dare say it though. Their relationship is a secret they must hide for the good of the Inquisition, and her love for him is a secret she holds for her own protection. Admitting to him that she loves him will only break her heart because he can’t love her back. He doesn’t know how.

He pats her hip and she sees he has the last coil of rope in one hand. “Hey. I need to tie your waist now.”

She’s about to ask if she should move to the bed when he drops to his knees; even his movement is more fluid than it has been recently. He holds her hips, big hands warm and heavy, and breathes in deep. He’s got this quiet, far away smile and she thinks it looks familiar. _Feels_ familiar. Like how she feels when he wraps her in ribbons and teases her. And because he’s there, within easy reach, she rests her hand on the base of his horn and again tries to imagine him with hair. He leans in and she scratches. He makes a noise like a cat purring and shifts so she can scratch a different spot. The skin around his horns is dry and rubbed raw, almost peeling away from the base. She’s sure they never used to be like that. The Western Approach had been hot and dry though, and just about everyone on that trip got sunburnt. Some cream or balm would help. Qunari horns were kind of like druffalo or ram horns. Maybe Dennett would have something suitable.

He doesn’t say anything as he starts wrapping and winding the rope around her waist. He’s freer with his touches now, brushing his fingers over her arse, the back of his hand against her cunt. She’s not sure it’s deliberate--this rope work is more intimate than what he did with her arms, so it could be coincidence. Grace doesn’t mind either way. Seeing Bull happy and content is good enough for her. But she is aware of her growing arousal and knowing Bull, he’ll be aware of it too. Maker, if this is what qunari wear every day, how do they get anything done?

As he works, he tugs on the rope a few times, settling it over her waist and hips so it sits comfortably. There’s a complicated knot in the middle, over her mound. It has rope going in and out of it but Grace can’t trace its path. Bull holds it in place with his little finger as he clamps one end of the rope between his index and middle finger. Then he leans in close and grabs the end with his teeth. Maker, his breath is hot on her underwear. He must’ve noticed her little shiver because he looks up and grins. Good thing his mouth is busy or he might say something that’ll have Grace melting even more.

He looks back down so she can’t see what he’s doing, but it mustn’t be going according to plan. The whole lot slips and he grumbles and grunts before finally sitting back on his heels. “Here, hold this for me, will you? Damn rope won’t sit right. Can’t get good shit in the south…”

Grace takes a handful of plaited rope while he fusses with the knot in the centre and continues to mutter a mix of qunlat and common. A plait on her other side swings away but he catches it and hauls it back in. He guides her hand close, fingers brushing together, and one by one he loops and knots and tugs the whole thing together. She thinks he’s done but Bull is meticulous. He eyes his work critically, adjusting here and there, slipping a finger under the rope, testing for spots that might pinch or rub the wrong way.

Finally, he kneels back and looks Grace up and down. He’s got that satisfied look, no longer critical, like she’s a completed work of art. She watches his eye roving and smiles wide when he finally meets her gaze.

“You look very happy with yourself,” she says.

“ _You_ make me very happy.” He kisses her belly, hands on her hips. The rope presses into her skin. He rests his cheek where he kissed her, the stubble a rough contrast to his lips, and looks up. “You know what would make me even happier?”

“I have a couple of ideas.” Grace laughed. “Shall we move this to the bed?”

He slips his hands over her arse and squeezes. “Nah, let’s stay here. I have everything I need within reach.” And to prove his point he works his fingers under both the rope and her underwear to stroke her cunt.

Grace gasps and grabs his horns. The rope around her arms doesn’t budge as her muscles flex. Sparks of pleasure shoot out from where he touches her. She digs her toes into the fur rug and wonders why she’d been so afraid of this rope for so long.

He works her underwear down, peeling it from her crotch. She’s embarrassed, she always is, at how it sticks but he only growls, like he’s pleased that he’s the one she has this reaction to. She steps out of her underwear, one foot then the other, already a little unbalanced, but she’s still got a grip on his horns. He parts her curls and inhales deep, but he doesn’t dive in, not yet. He runs his hands up her thighs instead, over the rope, her torso, to cup her breasts. They fit in his palms easily. She arches into his touch, willing his fingertips to her nipples. He circles one nipple under the scarf, then the other. They’re hard and aching and her clit pulses in time with her heart beat. Then he licks her cunt and she cries his name. He drops one hand to her arse and holds her so she can’t wiggle away. Not that she’d want to.

With his face is buried between her legs, tongue lapping, beard scratching, pleasure sparking, his hands gripping her waist, fingers under the rope he’s so meticulously tied, she realises with sudden clarity that he’s homesick. The realisation startles her. That gnawing, gut-wrenching fear of never seeing home again is a feeling Grace knows so well. She can’t imagine Bull, so big and loud, feeling the same way, but the signs are all here. Like Grace, he’s surrounded himself with reminders of home. The cocoa he drinks in the evening, the qunlat he speaks under his breath, even that beating from the stick. Now this. Antaam-Saar. _He’s homesick_.

He’s always insisted on having never had a home in the way Grace has but she’s never put much stock in that excuse. His home might not have been a pretty mansion atop a hill with a mother, a father, a brother, and a dozen cats, but he did have a home. He had the qun. No matter how far away from Par Vollen life took him, he always had the qun. But he hasn’t had the qun for months now.

In this moment, with her legs wobbling and an orgasm building, Grace sees what he’s doing for what it is: he needs this as much as she does. He needs _her_ as much as she needs _him_. The thought is frightening. And wonderful. He’s wrapped her in rope, turned her into a little piece of what he’s missing. A little piece of home.

She wails as her pleasure peaks, his name on her lips, her hands on his horns. She’s dimly aware of the sounds he’s making, too, but she’s acutely aware of the way his fingers and the rope dig into her skin. Strong and firm, holding her in place. Grounding her. Keeping her where he wants her. Then he pulls back and looks up. His eye is half lidded and glassy, face soaked.

“Ka--” He swallows, his throat bobbing. “Grace. You are...” He growls, then stands and picks her up in one swift motion. He’s hard, so hard, pressed against her as he stumbles to the bed. He drops her on her back and follows, kissing and nipping with his lips, palming her breasts. The rope bites into her collarbone and it’s testament to how good he tied the knots for they don’t slip.

“Grace,” he says, panting. “You look so good. The things you do to me. I’m going to ravage you like you’ve never been ravaged before.”

He kisses her, hard, and pins her wrists above her head in one of his strong hands. His kisses are just on this side of rough, his control evident in the way his muscles strain and veins pop as he holds himself above her.

She can’t think. She doesn’t want to. Bull has what he needs. She doesn’t want any more than that.


End file.
